Glorious Ordinary
by pheonixfeather94
Summary: "And in the dark, and in the tired, and in the small everydayness of these moments, I can feel it: the glorious ordinary that is his gift to us." / A drabble collection featuring Killian Jones and Emma Swan
1. Anything You Can Do

**Anything You Can Do**

(rated G)

* * *

She pauses just outside the door, key clasped in her hand, and tilts her head slightly to the side.

There's a noise coming from inside the loft, something soft and whirring and mechanical—

A drill?

She slides the key into the lock and twists the knob in one smooth movement, pushing over the threshold, and then stops, rather abruptly.

She isn't quite sure what she expected—half of her envisioned some sort of eccentric burglar, while the other half pictured her father in all his flannel glory—but the reality certainly isn't it.

"What are you doing?"

Killian starts, the power tool dropping from his hand to the floor with a loud crash. She winces while he yelps out a curse, and then the two of them are just standing there facing each other in the sudden silence.

She blinks, slowly taking in the half-formed shelving unit that has appeared on the living room wall, an open toolbox on the ottoman and various wrappings and packagings strung about the floor.

"What are you doing?"

Her repeated question seems to break some sort of spell. He shuffles on bare feet, reaching up to toy at the lobe of his ear—a nervous gesture, she's learned—and she spots the tell-tale hint of pink coloring his cheeks.

"The other evening, you mentioned that you might like a shelf to set the television on." He glances back over his shoulder, gesturing rather redundantly. "I took it upon myself to procure one."

Her heart melts just the littlest bit—it has a tendency to do that with him, she's noticed—and she takes a step farther into the room, setting her keys on a side table, to more closely inspect his handiwork.

"You did this?" she verifies, glancing over the brackets and mounts, all flush neatly against the wall, before casting her eyes back to him. "All by yourself?"

His expression is guarded, careful, and his hand makes a circuit through his hair before coming down to snag in a belt loop. "Does that surprise you?"

Truthfully, it kind of does. She doesn't have a history of staying any one place long enough to even think about putting up shelving, hanging pictures, painting walls—and they're certainly not to the point in their relationship that she would consider him doing those things for her, for _them_.

But, then she remembers that he did spend well over three centuries doing manual labor aboard a ship, and he does seem to have an uncanny ability for adapting to the modernity of this new life that he's chosen, and suddenly it's not so difficult to picture him strolling through the aisles at the local hardware store.

She runs her fingers over the cool metal of the shelf, tracing the meticulously placed tic marks on the still-exposed expanse of wall, and she can't quite manage to keep a smile from her face, because she knows that every time she looks at this shelf, every time she touches it or dusts it or rearranges Henry's obscenely large collection of DVDs, that she'll think about this, about _him_, standing barefoot and bare chested in the middle of the loft that's mostly hers and a little bit his and slowly becoming theirs, and she knows—she knows and she hopes and she _wants_—that this is only the first of many improvements he'll bring to her life and her home.

"No," she answers finally, turning to face him. She reaches out and catches the pocket of his jeans, tugging him closer, and sighs when his arm comes up around her shoulders. "No, it doesn't."


	2. Baby Mine

**Baby Mine**

(rated C for cavities)

* * *

The first time he feels their child move inside of her-_really _move, a sharp and pointed nudge-he cries, huge gasping, wracking sobs that leave his eyes red rimmed and his nose stuffy for the rest of the night.

They're sprawled across the couch, her legs thrown over his lap. A movie plays on the television, something that she'd put in out of habit when they'd settled down after dinner, but neither one of them are watching; she's reclined back against the arm rest, eyes closed, but he knows she's not really sleeping, because he's been watching _her_ for the better part of an hour.

He runs a finger over one of her swollen ankles, asking a silent question, and she cracks open one eyelid to look at him.

"Do you really even have to ask at this point?" Her voice is dry, deadpan, and he chuckles as he slips his hand more firmly around the inflamed joint, the corners of his mouth pulling up in a smile at her contented sigh.

"Thank you," she murmurs as he works his way up and down her calf. Not for the first time, he wishes for another hand, five more fingers with which to bring her pleasure, but then she sighs again, and he's happy enough to know that he can bring her _any_ amount of pleasure.

"Anything for the lady," he teases gently, winking at her when she rolls her eyes.

Her long lashes flutter closed once more, and he slides his hand farther up her leg, pushing up the hem of her cotton pants to lay his cheek against the silky skin of her thigh. She's warm and smooth and so undeniably perfect, and he can't help pressing his lips in a little line down to her knee. Her hands come to land in his hair-she's always fingering the dark locks now, now that he's let it grow out some for her-and he hums his own appreciation as her nails scrape over his scalp.

"I love you," he says into the crease of her knee, feeling rather than hearing her reciprocation when she rubs softly at the skin just under his ear, the spot that makes him fall apart for her every time. He lets his own eyes fall closed, and they soothe each other into something just short of slumber.

He doesn't know if minutes or hours have passed when he feels her tense beneath him. He tilts his head up to look at her, blinking through drowsiness to frown at her expression of discomfort.

He straightens almost immediately, reaching out for her as she bites her lip in pain.

"What is it?"

She shakes her head, halfheartedly waving him off as she shift her hips. "Nothing. He's just-I don't know, he's kicking or something. Right in my side."

Her hands move to cradle her rounded belly, smoothing over the surface, and his follow suit. He feels the now-familiar rolling sensation as the baby moves beneath the thin barrier of her skin, and he presses his fingers down, massaging the way he's learned feels best. Her hand links with his, pulling it to the side a few inches, and he moves obligingly before freezing.

Every muscle in his body tenses, the breath catching sharply in his throat, and he stares down at her with eyes blown wide.

It happens again a moment later; the outline of a nearly perfectly shaped miniature foot presses against the skin of his palm, once, twice, insistently.

He blinks, and he tries to breathe, but suddenly there's a lump in his throat and a knot in his chest, and then his eyes are welling up and nearly spilling over.

She frowns up at him, lips parting in question, but he feels that little kick again, and when he chokes over a sob, her expression clears in understanding.

Part of him is horrified-he spent three hundred years as bloody _Captain Hook_, and now he's crying like the babe cradled in her womb-but there's a bigger part of him that is absolutely, completely, terrifyingly overwhelmed.

He's felt elbow nudges and the sharp ridge of knuckles and even the roll of a knee, but this-this is different. This is him _cradling his unborn child's foot, _and all he can think about are ten tiny toes and blue and white striped socks and first steps and-

_Bloody hell_.

It hits him then, the fact that this baby is real, more real than a sonogram or a name stitched along the edge of a blanket or a picture that he has in his mind of Emma's chin and his ears and their son.

_Their son_.

And it seems so little, so inconsequential, just this little nudge, but somehow it isn't, and he wants to feel more of it. He wants to trace his fingers along satin skin and gossamer hair in a way that he's never wanted before.

Emma's hand moves from covering his on her rounded belly, slipping up his arm and around his neck and pulling his head down onto her shoulder, where he willingly rests. He screws his eyes shut against the burn of emotion there, tries to focus on the way her fingers card through his hair, tries to just _breathe_, but then he feels another little push pressing into the palm of his hand, and he looses it again, because he helped _make_ that little foot.

It's more than he ever imagined it would be, more than he ever thought, more than he could ever _deserve,_ to have this woman he loves carrying his child.

His head shifts down, and he moves his hand just enough to press his lips to the spot where he last felt that little foot. His fingers flex around the bulge of her stomach, willing the next four weeks to pass with merciful haste.

He wants to love this child in a way that he was never loved, yearns for sticky kisses bath time bubbles and tiny arms wrapped tight round his neck.

But for now, for now he does what little he's able to do-smooths his fingers over Emma's stretched skin, and nuzzles against the little body still swaddled inside.


	3. A Spoonful of Sugar

**A Spoonful of Sugar**

(rated G)

* * *

Her pirate, she learns, has a rather comical affinity for chocolate milk.

As does, apparently, her four year old son.

She wakes late, even for a Saturday, and when she blinks the sleep from her eyes to peer at the clock on the bedside table, she nearly topples out of the bed at what the little red numbers blink—9:51.

Her first reaction is confused disorientation—she briefly wonders if the power flickered overnight—before panic takes over, because it's nearly ten o'clock in the morning and she hasn't heard a peep from any of her children and _why is that_.

She throws the covers back, blindly reaching behind her to fumble for her husband's shoulder, only to be met with a cool pillow. She pauses, one foot halfway into a ragged pink slipper, and glances back to make sure that, yes, she really is in bed alone. She frowns—because, really, is this some sort of freaky second coming?—but then she hears a giggle and a squeal come from the direction of the living room, followed by a deep, husky chuckle that she knows so well, and it starts to make a little more sense in her sleep-muddled brain.

She drops her head down into her hand, raking her fingers up through her tangled mess of third-day hair, and takes a second to breathe for the first time in, like, six minutes.

When she's finally come to terms with the fact that yes, it really is ten o'clock, and no, her children and husband have not been abducted, she shoves her other foot into her matching slipper and pads softly into the hall.

She glances in Henry's room as she passes, her lanky nineteen-year-old's form buried under a pile of blankets and pillows, and allows herself a small smile before continuing on to the living room.

She stops when she gets to the end of the hall, and leans against the frame, taking a moment to observe the sight in front of her.

Her husband stands at the kitchen counter, two glasses of frothy, chocolatey liquid in front of him, and a tiny bottle in his free hand. Liam is right beside him, squirming impatiently and grasping on to Killian's shirt in a vain effort to pull himself up.

Killian swivels his head to grin down at the boy. "Patience, lad," he chastises gently, nudging him back a step with his knee. "Careful of your sister. Why don't you run on over and turn on the cartoons, hmm?"

Liam huffs, but obliges, and she watches, slightly in awe, as Killian finishes mixing the formula, propping the bottle into the tiny swaddle of blankets tucked in the crook of his bad arm and collecting the glasses of chocolate milk in his hand.

This is the part of parenthood that she hadn't been expecting, this joy she feels at watching the man she loves care for their children. He'd been so worried, with Liam, that he wouldn't be able to care for the baby properly, but now, on this second go 'round, he's a pro, three hundred years of one-handedness more than preparing him for juggling two.

He turns, stopping when he catches sight of her in the doorway, and an apologetic smile quirks up the corners of his lips.

"Sorry," he says as she takes a few steps closer, relieving him of the chocolate milk. "I tried to keep him quiet."

"And let me guess, the tickle monster made an appearance?" she fills in, cocking an eyebrow.

He chuckles, low and warm, and she can't help but grin as he slings his now-free arm around her shoulders and presses his lips against her temple. "Something like that," he murmurs. He kisses her again, on the cheek, and again, right on the corner of her mouth. "And you know the only way to fend off the dastardly beast."

She nods into the crook of his neck, matter-of-fact. "Of course. Chocolate milk."

"Chocolate milk," he echoes solemnly.

She snorts, winding an arm about his waist—there's a part of her that still delights in his shiver when she slips her hand beneath the hem of his t-shirt, fingering the warm skin there—and lifts the other to brush the blankets back from her baby girl's face.

She's met with a pair of sleepy green-blue eyes, and she smiles softly as she brushes a finger over her two-month-old daughter's wispy black curls.

"I can take her, if you want," she offers, and she's surprised when he shakes his head, loosening his arm to push her gently back in the direction of their bedroom.

"I've got her," he assures her. "Go back to bed, darling."

She _is_ exhausted, and the prospect of falling back into bed for another couple of hours _is_ tempting, but then Liam catches sight of her, and he begins a chant of "Momma, momma, momma!" as he jumps up and down on the couch, and Meara begins to fuss and root for the bottle in Killian's hand, and even though she knows there are horrendous bags under her eyes and her hair is stringy and limp and she hasn't shaved her legs in at least a week, she just can't bring herself to leave.

So, she sets the glasses of chocolate milk down on the coffee table and swoops in to pepper her little boy with kisses. Killian half-heartedly offers to make her a glass of milk, as well, but she waves him off because, really, they both know that she'll just drink his.


	4. Definitely, Maybe

A/N: Thank you all so much for your favorites, follows and kind reviews. I love seeing them! If anyone out there has any prompt ideas/requests, feel free to post them in a review or find jennsavvi on tumblr. That said, here's a little speck of fluff to tide you over after last night's episode :)_  
_

**Definitely, Maybe**

(rated T for implied sexual activity)

* * *

She wakes to the feeling of a warm arm slipping around her waist, and when a pair of lips press softly into the crook of her neck, she freezes, eyes snapping open.

"It's just me," comes a quiet murmur next to her ear, and she feels her body melt back into relaxation at the familiar voice.

Killian resumes tracing his lips up and down the line of her neck, and she takes a moment to just _feel_. It's been so long since she's done this, since she's opened her arms and her bed and her heart, and she expects to feel the aching twinge of regret, but she doesn't, not even when his hand slips up over her ribs to rest on that place where she knows her pulse is beating out a rhythm of words all its own.

"Did you sleep well?" he asks, and the whispered words tickle the shell of her ear. She nods, bringing her fingers up to tangle in his.

"Did _you_?"

He hums an affirmative into her hair, nose nudging her when he nods. "Better than I have in ages, my love."

His words send a thrill through her body, and the addition of those two possessive letters in front of the endearment she's become so used to hearing sets her heart racing. She's heard him say it before, will hear it again, certainly, but it carries more weight than usual in the stillness of this first morning-after.

"Emma?" he questions, and it's only then that she realizes her body's gone stiff again. She makes a conscious effort to loosen her muscles, and rolls in his arms to smile sheepishly up at him.

"Sorry," she says softly. "Old habits."

She reaches up to run a thumb over his lips, and he presses a kiss to her knuckle. "You don't have anything to run from this time. I'll not hurt you."

It's become a mantra of sorts, his promise to her that he vows over and over in the words that he speaks and the things that he does and the way that she knows—just _knows_, without him having to say anything—that he loves her, probably more than anyone's ever loved her in her whole life.

"I know."

She smiles, sliding her hand back through his hair to pull him down for a long, languid kiss. His tongue slips against hers, and even though her body aches and she really wants nothing more than to take a hot shower, she feels the want start to pool between her legs.

He kisses her like he can't get enough of her, and it breaks her heart a little bit to think that he'd spent all that time—stubborn, foolish man that he is—thinking he'd never get to kiss her like this again.

Oxygen becomes a necessity at some point, however, and she breaks away to heave in gasping breaths of air. His lips are kiss-bitten red, the apples of his cheeks stained the most delectable pink, and her hands have absolutely wrecked his hair, but he's beautiful in that way that twists in her chest, and she pulls him closer so that she can rest her forehead against the skin of his neck.

"Do you want to get up?"

His voice is raw and thick around both lust and love, and it makes her shiver a little bit to hear it. She glances over at the clock, briefly, and notes with satisfaction that they still have a couple of hours before Henry will be up and looking for her. She knows that, eventually, they'll have to start their day; they'll have to trek down the stairs to the diner and meet her parents for breakfast, and they'll have to fan out and start picking up the pieces of what's left of Storybrooke, but it's only just a quarter after five, and they can afford to stay in bed a little longer.

He doesn't question when she pushes him gently onto his back and rolls to straddle his hips. His hand comes up to hold her steady, and she bites her lip when they start to move because she thinks that maybe she loves him—and maybe it's less of a _think_ and more of a _know_, and less of a _maybe_ and more of a _definitely_—but she doesn't quite have the words to say it, at least not the way he does, and so she lets her body do all the talking, and when she falls apart, he's still right there, arms wrapped around her tight, his lips already knitting her back together.


End file.
